


Stay Puft Marshmallow Dean

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humor, Protective Sam Winchester, Silly, Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean turns into a marshmallow. That's the whole story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Puft Marshmallow Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This is a result of a throwaway comment from pocketfullof which lodged in my brain, showing me that I obviously shouldn't be allowed out to play with the other children any more.

"Dean, all I'm saying is you shouldn't have scared her like that."

"Scared _her_?" Dean replied, exasperated as all hell. "Aw, man, how the hell was I to know she was a white witch? And what the hell is a white witch anyway? They're all meddling in stuff they shouldn't. It's all stupid. It's just so... stupid."

"You couldn't have known," Sam said, trying to keep it as placating as possible. "But like she said, it'll only last a couple of hours. All we have to do is keep you away from fire, water, children and small animals and you'll be fine."

"Sam, don't say things like that! It's not funny."

Sam bit on the inside of his cheeks. He was trying. He really, really was, but come on. There were limits.

Dean's grumpiness was palpable. "Dude, I'm just... Stick those toothpicks in me."

Sam's laughter vanished instantly. "I'm _not_ sticking toothpicks in you."

"But I could use them like legs. Then I could get around. It's so boring being a... y'know." Sam knew that if Dean had shoulders, they'd be tensed up to his ears, Dean powerless in the face of adversity and hating it. "So long as this is only temporary, I'm okay. I can deal. But I'm bored."

"Oh," Sam said softly. "I get it." And for the first time, he thought maybe he did. Sure it was funny from the outside: his overly butch, belligerent, big brother had been turned into a marshmallow, but on the inside it must have been awful. Sitting there, less than an inch high, squishy and pink and pudgy and pink and mostly inanimate and _pink_ and ever so slightly lopsided. Awful and embarrassing and kind of scary. Especially for someone like Dean. Sam had been terrified when he'd seen what had happened to Dean. More than terrified. He'd been two seconds away from going global thermonuclear meltdown on the witch's ass. If he hadn't had Missouri's explicit say so that Cassandra, the white witch in question, could be trusted to turn Dean back, things would have gone down very differently. As it stood, Sam had called on every ounce of willpower he possessed to accept the timid witch's stammered apologies and her word that he'd have Dean back to normal before sundown. "But I'm still not sticking them in you. We have no idea what it'll do to you."

"Come on. It's not like I have any internal organs to worry about."

"You don't have any muscles either. How're you going to move your new legs?"

"The power of thought?"

"What if after you turn back you still have gaping holes in you?"

"I'll..."

Sam raised his eyebrows, waiting for whatever pearl of wisdom Dean was going to toss out.

"I'll..."

"You'll..." Sam made a little circular gesture with his hand, then wondered why he was bothering as he wasn't sure Dean could even see him.

"Call her," Dean said.

"Who?"

"Cassandra. The witch. She gave you her number, right?"

"Sure but that was only in case of--"

"Well it surely wasn't 'cause she was hitting on you. Call her and ask her if we can give me legs."

"Dean, I'm not going to--"

"Sam, I'm a goddamn _marshmallow_. Would you please give me a little fucking dignity?"

Sam flipped open his phone and dialled the number.

"Well?" Dean asked eagerly when the short conversation ended.

Sam sighed and rubbed at his forehead. The whole thing was really just too much. "She thought it was pretty weird, to say the least."

"I don't care what she _thought_. What did she _say_?"

Sam sucked in a breath and held it. "She says we can stick things in you. This, uh, shape is only temporary and you'll be returned whole and unharmed to your natural form when you switch back."

"Sweet!" Dean crowed. "Go fashion me some walking legs, bitch. And some arms, too."

"Arms?"

"And get me some jellybeans or something for eyes." The marshmallow crinkled ever so slightly, like Dean was squinting. "It's like trying to look at the world through jello."

Sam wondered if perhaps he'd gone completely insane. It couldn't be happening. The real Dean was probably crouched outside the window of their motel room, laughing his ass off, peeking in every so often while his little brother communed with a small piece of confectionery. Sam wouldn't put it past him.

"I don't really want to leave you here alone."

"What's going to happen to me? Just make sure the window's shut and lock the door behind you. We already have toothpicks, you just have to go to the vending machine. It's right down the hall."

"Dean, if something happens it's not like you can protect yourself."

"What's going to happen?"

Sam opened his mouth, but no words came. Dean was probably right. Who was going to steal a marshmallow? So Sam went, like the dutiful little brother that he was, to the vending machine, bought a couple of different bags of candy, and hotfooted it back to their room, because the thought of Dean sitting there, alone and completely and utterly helpless was churning in his gut. Which was stupid, because Dean was right: what the hell could possibly happen to him in the space of two minutes? Sam had been in sight of their door the whole time. No one had gone in or out. Dean would be fine, he told himself, unlocking the door. Dean would be just fine.

He closed the door behind him, tossed the candy on the bed, and went back to the bedside table.

Dean was not fine. Dean was gone. Vanished. Disappeared. Dean was without a doubt _not there_.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, searching the room.

"Yeah, yeah," came a grumbled reply. "Keep your shorts on."

Sam dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the bed. There, in amongst the dust bunnies, covered in fluff, was his brother. The marshmallow.

"Dean, what the hell?"

The marshmallow rocked back and forth in tiny increments. "Don't just stand there, dumbass. Pick me up!"

Sam picked him up carefully and set him back on the bedside table. "What were you doing?" he asks, cautiously brushing fluff off what was possibly his brother's head.

"I was trying to roll around," Dean said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Sam knew -- sure as demons were evil and Ash's hair was the most godawful 'do he'd ever laid eyes on -- that if Dean could he'd have been pulling a face and batting Sam's hands away. "Guess I rolled a little too far."

"No shit."

"Did you get me jellybeans?"

Sam sighed and dropped the fluff on the floor. "Yeah. And chocolate drops and a couple of other things."

Dean rolled over onto what was possibly his back and lay there looking as expectant as a marshmallow could. "Well? Get to it."

Sam fetched the toothpicks and laid out his selection of confectionery operating equipment. He held a toothpick in one hand like a scalpel and... just sat there.

"What's the hold up?" Dean asks. "I'm not getting any less Boxing Helena over here."

"Dean," Sam said with a sigh. "Don't say that."

"What?" Dean snapped. "I'm a freakin' marshmallow. I have no arms or legs. General rules of etiquette don't apply to people like me."

"General rules of etiquette have never applied to people like you."

"Would you please just stop pitching a fit 'cause you found me on the floor and get to the jabbing me with little sticks part already?"

"Maybe if you'd been a little more patient you wouldn't have ended up on the floor and scared me half to death."

"I'm sorry,' Dean said, garnishing his words with extra helpings of insincere. "I'm fresh out of patient. I must have left it in my other pants. Do you accept hysterical hissy fits, because that's what you're about to get if you don't get with the leg-making, pronto!"

They tried toothpicks first, Sam working carefully, trying not to jab Dean any more than he had to, but they didn't work. There was no range of motion, and while Dean could waggle them, he could only manage an awkward step or two before he fell flat.

So they tried licorice whips, which Sam reasoned were bendier and would work much better. He stressed over his task, imaging having a nurse on hand to mop his brow, but instead all he had is his marshmallow brother balling him out for having sweaty hands and threatening him with painful death if he dared to make Dean sticky.

By the time Sam was finished, Dean had licorice whip arms and legs, jellybean feet for weight and balance, and chocolate drops for eyes.

Dean sat up and looked at his hands, drummed his little feet on the table, then set about trying to get to his feet. Sam offered a finger, which Dean grabbed onto and used to haul himself upright. He stood with his feet planted, his arms bent like he had his hands on his hips, looked up at Sam. The marshmallow crinkled like he was smiling.

It was the strangest, and possibly the cutest thing Sam had ever seen, and he had to fight like hell to keep it from showing on his face because he knew Dean would be across the table in a shot, trying to kick at his hand in retaliation, and frankly Sam didn't know if the little jellybean feet could take it. So instead he just sat there, biting down hard on the grin that threatened to overtake his entire face as Dean took a few practice steps, pitching around the tabletop until he found his sea legs.

Sam picked up a handful of excess jellybeans and was about to throw them in his mouth when he paused. He glanced at his awkwardly locomotive brother, then set the jellybeans back down with a complicated expression on his face.

"You happy now?" Sam asked.

"A-one, Sammy. You know this isn't bad. It's like learning to drive or ride a horse or something. You have to concentrate like hell not to fall on your butt. It's all a little surreal to tell you the truth."

"You don't say," Sam said.

"Hey, Sam? Thanks for..." Dean waved his licorice whip arm like he was trying to figure out what to say without coming off girly. "Y'know."

"Yeah," Sam said, staring down at him. "I know."

"Dude, don't look at me like that."

Sam frowned. "Like what?"

"Like I'm the last slice of cherry pie on the plate."

"_Dean_! I'm not thinking about--"

"Eating me? You better not be."

"I think your brain shrank with the rest of you, you know that? You're the most unappetising marshmallow I've ever laid eyes on. You've been rolling around on the floor and you probably taste like boogers."

"Boogers? What are you? Twelve?"

Sam was about to retaliate when suddenly his brother reappeared, sitting on his butt on the cheap little bedside table which splintered under his weight and deposited him unceremoniously on the floor with a loud crash. Dean immediately leapt to his feet like he was expecting an attack. He caught sight of Sam and his eyes widened in realisation. He looked down at his own body and _howled_ in delight. Sam watched in amazement as Dean actually kissed both his hands and ran them down his thighs, groaning obscenely with the pleasure of being back in his own body. He bent his knees, wiggled his fingers, stamped his feet, and then, horrifyingly, looked down the front of his jeans. He apparently liked what he saw as he offered up a quick prayer of thanks before turning a megawatt smile on Sam.

"You're back then?" Sam asked conversationally.

"In the flesh. The Stay Puft Marshmallow Man is dead; long live the Dean. Can we please go salt and burn that bitch just for the hell of it?"

"Who? Cassandra? No way, Missouri would hunt us down and make us pay."

"Yeah, but--"

"And maybe this time, Cassandra would make your little transformation permanent."

Dean scowled. Then he grouched for a bit, muttering about witches and stupid chicks and how he could take Missouri if it came right down to it in a fair fight, but eventually seemed to talk himself round and dismiss it as a bygone, no harm no foul.

"C'mon," Dean said, grabbing his jacket.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, blindsided by the abrupt change of pace.

"For a walk."

"A walk."

"Yes, dude, a walk."

"_You_ want to go for a _walk_."

"Yeah." Dean shook his body out. "I can still feel those toothpicks in my ass."

"Where are we going?"

"To the store."

Sam stood up. The store. Dean talking about his ass. Ordering him around. All completely normal, everyday things. This was good. This was progress. "The store?"

"Is there an echo in here? Yeah. I want to pick up a few things,' Dean said, unlocking the door. He stood framed in the doorway, looked back at his brother and grinned, lighthearted and open, and totally over it already because he was Dean Winchester, damn it.

"What things?" Sam asked.

"You know, it's funny." Dean's grin hitched up a few notches. "I've got the craziest craving for s'mores."

**Author's Note:**

> <http://nomelon.livejournal.com/22645.html>


End file.
